


Mycroft's Secret

by Slashify



Series: Slashify's Headcanons [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Modification, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, M/M, body image issues, but still slightly crack-ish, silly at first but then stuff gets serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slashify/pseuds/Slashify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why doesn't Mycroft want Greg to see him naked?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft's Secret

**Author's Note:**

> I mean no offense to anyone with this fic. I'm overweight, myself, and this fic is not supposed to be making light of that, and is certainly not trying to be insensitive to weight issues. It was inspired by everyone seeming to have headcanon in which Mycroft has/had weight issues, and he is very self-conscious. This is my headcanon. Also, I've merged these two into one, because it was silly to make it two chapters. I see that now. I'm learning.

The first time they were naked together, Mycroft made sure that the lights were off. He undressed under the covers, even though Gregory stood before him, naked and glorious, and shameless.

The second time, Mycroft still got naked between the sheets, and Gregory stroked a hand over his stomach in a soothing motion. He wondered if Gregory knew he made those sounds, reassuring humming, murmuring noises.

The third time, Gregory mentioned the dim lighting, the fact that he disrobed under cover.

"Mycroft," he whispered, as if it were a secret shared between them. "You don't have to hide from me, Love. I love your body. You're perfect to me."

"Oh my god! You think I'm fat!"

"What? No, I- I didn't say-"

"You don't have to say it! You think I'm self-conscious about my body because you think that I think I'm fat! I- I know I haven't been in the gym as much lately, but I've been busy! But I'm not fat. I've never been fat..."

"Look, Mycroft, calm down! I just, I, Sherlock's always making comments about your weight, yeah? And, yes, lately, you've gained a little... Extra to love. I just thought you might not be feeling your sexiest. Not because you aren't sexy, because you really are! Only, right now you're making me feel more nervous than- But, but I-"

"Gregory. The reason I haven't wanted to let you see me, really see me, has nothing to do with my body, rather with what's on it."

Greg tilted his head. What was that supposed to mean? He got his answer soon enough, as Mycroft dragged his shirt over his head. Greg had a hard time not laughing, but he managed.

"It was a penance, you see," Mycroft said, running his fingertips over the tattoo across his rib cage, "a form of payback. For Sherlock."

"Payback for what?" Greg asked, running his own fingers down the image on his love's ribs. It was a pink, purple, and blue cupcake, in pastels. The lines were faded enough to suggest it was an older tattoo.

"That, my dear Gregory, is a long story. One which, I think, can wait. Don't you agree?" He muttered, pressing his hips to Greg's.

Greg forgot all about the cupcake tattoo for a few moments... Make that hours...

* * *

 

When Mycroft was sixteen, Sherlock was nine. Despite the age difference, the boys were close, nearly inseparable. They told each other almost everything. They spent almost every moment together, when Mycroft was home. Sherlock ate what Mycroft ate, drank what he drank, and even tried to imitate the older boy's walk. Mycroft adored Sherlock. His little brother was so intelligent, so naturally inquisitive.

So one afternoon, when Mycroft was out of school, he decided to take Sherlock for ice cream. It was a simple decision, one Mycroft only gave a few second's thought. His brother wanted ice cream, so he would have ice cream. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, rambling rapid-fire about various toppings, and Mycroft, with his new license in his wallet, sat behind the wheel.

It wasn't Mycroft's fault. Sherlock wouldn't admit that until they were old and grey, but it was the truth. The other car had run a red light, and Mycroft wasn't quite fast enough with the breaks.

Sherlock had been in hospital for weeks.

Mycroft begged his little brother's forgiveness, begged Mummy's forgiveness. He had so thoroughly disappointed them both. Mummy eventually saw reason. Sherlock was alive, after all, and she couldn't stay angry with one of her darling boys for long. Sherlock, however, was another matter.

He demanded special treatment, ordered Mycroft to smuggle things into the room that he wasn't strictly allowed, berated his big brother, scowled at him, told him he hated him, shouted at him.

When Mycroft could take no more, he asked Sherlock to name the elusive thing that would make it all okay again. He told him to name it, and they could go back to how they were, everything would be as it was. And Sherlock named it.

"A permanent mark," he snarled, "to remind you of your ineptitude."

Sherlock quickly sketched an outline on a hospital napkin, and sent Mycroft on his way.

The artist raised an eyebrow at Mycroft over the machine.

"You sure about this?"

Mycroft gave a nod. He would do anything for Sherlock.

When the deed was done, he went back to the hospital. He showed his dear little brother the still-bleeding cupcake tattoo on his ribs. Sherlock smirked, and Mycroft thought that was the end of it.

But Sherlock never fully trusted Mycroft after that. Things didn't, couldn't go back to the way they were before the crash.

Mycroft hasn't driven a car since that day.


End file.
